


much madness is divinest sense

by neroh



Category: Mindhunter (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Background Relationships, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Divorce, FBI Idiots in Love, Falling In Love, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Growing Old Together, Historical References, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Canon, Sexuality, Slice of Life, Spoilers, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-04-20 10:58:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14259489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neroh/pseuds/neroh
Summary: He falls in love with Holden in pieces.Unconsciously at first, then slowly from there on out until finally the realization dawns on Bill all at once.





	much madness is divinest sense

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for Bre, Allison, and Leah for letting me yell about this show and fic. You three are seriously amazing for joining me down the rabbit hole!
> 
> I've taken the title from the Emily Dickinson poem "Much Madness is Divinest Sense" and please excuse the time skips - the fic spans over a period of nearly forty years.
> 
> Historical events mentioned:
> 
> \- Homosexuality removed from the American Psychiatric Association as a mental illness on December 15, 1973  
> \- Martinair Flight 495 that crashed on December 21, 1992  
> \- DOMA repealed on June 26, 2015

He gets the call after a full day’s passed since the incident, they call it.

 _The Incident_ like there’s been some sort of global disaster. An assassination, another war, a nuclear bomb going off and swallowing up a city with its explosion—a catastrophe nowhere as lowly as Holden lying in a Sacramento-area hospital. Except it’s not; it never is when you’ve worked so closely with someone, even if they are obnoxious and stubborn as Agent Ford.

Holden’s admitted on a Sunday and Bill doesn’t check his messages until he gets into the office on Monday, still seething from the team’s run-in with OPR. He can’t even look at or speak to Wendy when he stomps in and sees Holden’s empty desk. Repressing the urge to toss it on its side, Bill goes to his own and finds his phone blinking incessantly as if it’s saying _look at me_ over and over again. He nearly grabs the stupid thing and throws it against the wall, but decides OPR wouldn’t look kindly upon property damage. Bill grabs the receiver and presses more buttons than necessary to listen to whatever’s waiting for him on the other end.

He hears the words in the midst of static: Holden. Hospital. Kemper. And then: So very sorry that they didn’t phone sooner. There’s no other in case of emergency contact. They’ll try Dr. Carr.

Bill forgets to breathe until he sees Wendy’s face mirroring his expression. She’s pale like he feels, speechless like he is, shaking in a way he hasn’t started to…yet. All anger funnels out of him and he thinks _holy fuck_.

And— _if Kemper laid a hand on him, I’ll kill him myself._

Also— _what were you thinking?_

Bill doesn’t remember booking their tickets on the next flight out of Dulles or running home to messily pack a suitcase, only that when he blinks, he’s sitting next to Wendy by the gate and Holden’s three thousand miles away.

 

* * *

 

No one knows much, only that Holden collapsed outside of Kemper’s hospital room and has been unresponsive ever since.

They are led up to the Psych Ward by a nurse with plaited red hair tucked under her white hat and her shoes squeaking on the linoleum. Bill thinks of the depraved men he and Holden have interviewed and what they might do if they saw her, then shivers. He’s certain Wendy notices, but she has the decency not to mention it. The nurse excuses herself to find the doctor assigned to Holden’s case and rushes off, disappearing behind swinging doors and leaving them in a medicinal smelling corridor. In a fucked up situation with scant details, Bill doesn’t think he or Wendy will get the answers they seek.

Kemper won’t talk. Holden isn’t talking and probably couldn’t if he wanted to. It’s beyond infuriating.

The doctor comes with a chart clutched to his chest. He’s a thin, balding man closer to Bill’s age than Holden’s. His handshake is too sweaty, too loose for Bill’s liking and he regards Wendy with a mixture of disdain and awe, especially when she corrects him after he refers to her as Bill’s wife and introduces herself as _Doctor_ Wendy Carr. Chagrined, he leads them to a stuffy waiting room where he explains what they already know—Holden went to see Kemper, he collapsed after leaving and hasn’t been responsive since.

“May I?” Wendy asks, already reaching for the chart. The doctor hands it to her and keeps talking while she reviews his notes.

She remarks on several items—palpitations, the shortness of breath, depersonalization—all of which Bill has heard in passing, but never paid attention to. He listens to her and the doctor confer over Holden’s chart, finding the whole thing hilarious in hindsight because Wendy’s giving this guy a run for his fancy medical degree. All he wants to do right now is see Holden, to know that he’s alive despite being _unwell_ , as the doctor mentions more than once.

“When can we see him?” Bill asks, after taking a few minutes to muster up the courage.

“I can take you now,” the doctor says. “Usually we only allow family members in—” Bill scowls at him and pacifies whatever words were going to come out of the guy’s mouth. “—but since you’re both with the FBI…”

 _Damn right,_ Bill thinks. If the doctor had given another answer, he would have yelled this hospital to the ground and then some. He _needs_ to see Holden with his own eyes and have visuals on what he’s being told. Deep in the recesses of his mind, Bill starts to believe that Holden will be frothing at the mouth while he covers a wall with his own shit. Or maybe it will be worse than that. Maybe Holden will have turned into a rabid psychopath, hell-bent on murder and destruction. He’ll become the next subject Bill and Wendy interview if they’re ever allowed to again.

The Psych Ward is decidedly more unpleasant than the other wards in the hospital. It’s portrait of stark, bleak surroundings that are heavy with desperation and lunacy. Bill notices a few of the patients, all of them with sallow, papery skin with a blank look in their eyes. Not the type that he’s seen in the murderers the team has interviewed, but strung out on whatever drugs they’ve been prescribed. The lost souls, the cases with no happy endings, the forgotten family member only whispered about when the old ladies aren’t in the room.

This is the exact place Bill refuses to place his son in, nor does he think Holden should be here…that is until he sees him.

They’ve given him a private room, away from the other patients, with a nice view of a man-made lake surrounded by a park. People mill about on the concrete pathways, unaware of who’s looking down at them, as they carry on with their day. Bill steps towards the window while Wendy steps the opposite direction until he stops himself and turns, his stomach dropping horribly.

Holden lies on the bed, curled up under a layer of thin blankets, his legs drawn up towards his chest and held there by his arms. The fabric of his hospital gown rises above them, thin and scratchy. His Mormon/Boy Scout/Bible Salesman haircut falls over the pillow in soft, untamed waves.

Wendy goes to him first, approaching Holden slowly as she sets down her things. “Holden,” she calls, her voice soft and uncharacteristically sweet. Bill knows her to be kind, generous, but would never describe Wendy as sweet; it doesn’t seem right. “It’s Dr. Carr. Wendy,” she says as she touches his shoulder. She looks at the doctor. “How long has he been in a dissociative state?”

Bill moves, shifting passed Wendy and the doctor as they gather by the bed, to look at Holden. What he finds causes him to do a double-take because _fuck,_ Bill wasn’t expecting this; not the blank stare, the dried up riverbeds of tears on his cheeks or his dry, parted lips. Whatever Wendy and the doctor are saying becomes white noise—like snow on a television—as Bill comes closer.

He’s seen a lot of shit in this lifetime—wars, dead bodies, the worst of human nature and the best, murderers, saints and sinners—but none of it holds a candle to what Bill sees now. Holden, who he can never get to shut up, who encroaches on his tee time and sits on his bed without asking, this little shit that’s gotten so far under his skin that it’s taken this long for Bill to figure out.

“Holden,” he says, softly. He drops down to eye-level like he’s speaking to Brian. _Calmly,_ Bill thinks. _Gently._ He swallows and tries again, “Holden. It’s Bill. Wendy’s here, too.” He glances at her and chuckles at the doctor’s visible frustration of Wendy asking questions he cannot begin to answer. “And she’s giving the doc a run for his money,” he adds as he turns back. Holden’s impassive expression makes the smile on Bill’s face vanish. “But we came as soon as we heard. Couldn’t let you waste away in here all by yourself, you know? We’re a team.”

He dares to touch him, hesitantly at first as he pats Holden’s shoulder. Nothing happens other than Holden's ragged breathing and the slow blinking of his eyes. Bill looks closer, looking for clues as he does with all of his cases. Except Holden isn’t a case, he reminds himself, but he needs someone to help him. Bill starts with the obvious—any signs of physical trauma. Other than the IV port stuck into his arm and the other tube disappearing under the blankets where they’ve inserted a catheter into his prick, Holden seems physically unharmed. No scratches, no bruising, no tissue under his nail beds from putting up a fight—just the fortress of silence keeping him locked away.

Bill goes to the next step in collecting evidence—Holden’s eyes. He’s noticed them on too many occasions, and how could he not? The irises that change color depending on the clothes he’s wearing or the weather. From cornflower blue to slate grey, they are as fluid as Holden’s emotions and right now, Bill notices the fear inside them. The terror leading to the moments from which Holden retreated.

Kemper did something to Holden and Bill knows it within every fiber of his being. He did it to provoke a two-fold reaction—frightening Holden into submission and instigating Bill to violence. He needs these reactions only for the gratification he cannot find in murder; it’s his only joy.

Kemper needs his kicks. Holden needs Bill.

It’s an easy decision for Bill to make.

 

* * *

 

Holden wakes.

And wakes and wakes.

He opens his eyes every morning and closes them for several hours around mid-afternoon. He opens them again during dinner time and finally closes them until the next day.

Holden wakes, except not really.

His eyes might be open, but it’s not Bill or Wendy’s face he sees.

It’s just nothing, nothing but rinsing and repeating.

Nothing but darkness.

 

* * *

 

They fly him home on a Wednesday.

Because of the strides the team—mainly Holden, in Bill’s opinion—has made, the FBI has decided they can’t leave one of their brightest to rot in Sacramento. It would be bad press if word got out, especially with Atlanta reaching out to help them track a child killer. All eyes are on them and OPR has decided, in the wake of all this mess, to lay off.

 _A simple misunderstanding_ , they say in a memo addressed to the three of them. Bill blows cigarette smoke out his nose, rolling his eyes as Wendy reads the neatly typed letter aloud. They’re waiting to board the medical jet with Holden, baking under the California sun and heat so dry it makes their skin crack.

“So we’re off the hook,” Bill grouses, stubbing the cigarette out.

“It seems so,” Wendy agrees. She balls the memo up in her fist and tosses it into the nearest trash can. “They need us more than we need them.”

Bill shrugs in agreement. “Bureaucracy has a pecking order,” he says in a lame explanation. “Atlanta PD needs the FBI, the FBI needs us…”

Wendy looks at him, her face soft and sympathetic, and says, “And we need Holden.”

They need each other, though neither of them says it. The three of them are a jigsaw puzzle that only they can figure out and when apart, their pieces don’t quite fit.

“We need Holden,” Bill echoes. The thought _I need Holden_ pushes at his throat, but he swallows it down.

It’s a dangerous thought; he doesn’t need any more of those.

 

* * *

 

The room at Walter Reed overlooks research buildings surrounded by the Rockville Pike, and the Beltway on the other side.

Bill thinks they could have done better in their accommodations, but holds his tongue. The doctors exceed his expectations in treating Holden. Instead of questions and more questions, they know what’s wrong with him, though it doesn’t calm Bill and Wendy’s concerns.

“A nervous breakdown brought on by an acute stress trigger,” the lead psychologist on Holden’s team tells them. Christine Kraus is a willowy blonde with Grace Kelly looks and the mind of Sabina Spielrein who is practical and dislikes bullshit. Bill loves her immediately while Wendy appraises carefully as Wendy does. “Mr. Ford has no previous events of this nature, nor do his medical records indicate as such.”

“What are you saying? This is a one-off?” Bill asks as they stand just outside Holden’s room.

“That’s not how you characterize a mental breakdown,” Wendy says in exasperation. “There are many factors that trigger the human psyche.”

Dr. Kraus nods. “Dr. Carr is correct. You mentioned that Mr. Ford was under a lot of stress at work and might have been suffering from insomnia as a result. Did he experience mood swings or complain of physical ailments? Dizziness, feeling sick to his stomach, a loss of appetite?”

“I don’t know,” Bill replies, frustrated. “Maybe.”

“You’re his partner,” Dr. Kraus says. “Surely he mentioned something.”

Bill opens his mouth to say something snide but remembers the hollows of Holden’s cheeks and the dark circles under his eyes. How Holden, the most steadfast of young agents, became unhinged and uprooted. That Kemper and the madmen they interviewed got under his skin and Bill did nothing at all to stop it. Like Holden was Kitty Genovese and Bill was suffering from the bystander effect, only able to watch instead of help.

He glances at Holden as he sleeps or, at least, Bill thinks he’s sleeping. His eyes are closed, but anyone’s guess is as good as any. Bill goes to sit by his bedside while Wendy and Dr. Kraus talk in hushed voices, probably about what treatments are available and all of the things Bill doesn’t understand.

“Snap out of it, kid,” Bill whispers. His hands itch to touch Holden, though he’s afraid that if he does, Holden will crumble before his very eyes. “Don’t let him do this to you. He’s not worth it.”

He being Kemper. Bill would love nothing more than to flip the switch on that son of a bitch and watch him fry. At least he’s rotting away in a cell in California, miles away from a place he’ll never get to.

Except the damage’s already done and everyone has to wait to see what the lasting effects will be.

 

* * *

 

Nancy asks for a divorce one night.

Bill’s just trudged into the house after spending most of the day at Walter Reed, silently reviewing case files by Holden’s bedside. Holden slept the entire time, which was fine. It’s the only time Bill’s been able to shut the kid up and work in peace. Secretly, he misses Holden’s constant chatter and the sound of his voice.

“This isn’t working,” Nancy tells him with sympathy in her voice. There’s no shouting or accusations; just the end of nearly a lifetime together. They’ve had a good run and there’s a beautiful little boy to consider. He deserves to grow up with two happy parents instead of miserable ones.

He nods. “It isn’t.” Bill thinks it should hurt more than it does, but it doesn’t and he’s almost okay with that.

While he sleeps on the couch in the living room, Bill gets a phone call—Holden’s come out of it.

 

* * *

 

 _It_ is such a strange word to describe where Holden’s been the past few weeks.

Like he’s taken a vacation to an exotic land and come back with a tan, except Holden’s paler and skinnier than Bill or Wendy’s ever seen him. He’s been there in a physical sense, completely unaware of the world around him as he lies in bed and stares at nothing. Not a sound, not a peep, not anything save for his eyes blinking when they aren’t closed.

Bill notices the feverish brightness of them when he enters the hospital room; too watery to be considered luminous and too dull to call them anything else. He stands in the doorway for a moment, taking in Dr. Kraus as she quietly asks Holden questions and a nurse helps him hold a waxy paper cup steady since he’s too weak to do it himself. Wendy sits on the mattress by his blanket-covered feet, rubbing them soothingly while Holden takes slow sips of what Bill guesses to be water.

“Hey,” Holden greets, his voice sounding husk thin and bone dry. Brittle if not for the boyish grin on his lips.

Three other sets of eyes turn to stare at Bill, none of them seem surprised to see him hastily dressed and wearing the rattiest pair of sneakers he throws on for when he’s mowing the lawn. He clears his throat, ridding it of the feeling of words pressing uncomfortably against it. Strange how difficult he finds it to speak when it’s always been so easy as breathing. “You have a terrible sense of timing, kid,” Bill tells him.

Wendy’s mouth twitches upward into a smile, despite her biting her lip, while Dr. Kraus and the nurse’s faces convey neutrality, but Bill knows better. Their opinion doesn’t matter because, frankly, Holden is Bill’s prime concern and has been for some weeks. Probably even before that, if he’s honest.

Holden snorts, dimples forming in his cheeks as he grins and it knocks Bill’s world off its axis. Never has he been so gobsmacked by someone’s reaction like he is at this moment. “You’re not the first person to say that, Bill,” Holden says.

“Why am I not surprised?” Bill takes a step forward and resolutely ignores the way his legs shake. He marvels at seeing Holden awake and present, that he’s no longer a shell with his personality tucked away within the depths of himself. Honestly, Bill thought he would never get him back and shared his worried sentiments with Wendy, who assured him otherwise. He owes her a steak dinner and as many Manhattans as her heart desires.

“I think you missed me,” Holden teases, poking Wendy with his big toe and winking, conspicuously. Wendy shakes her head, laughing softly. “I’m not wrong,” he sing-songs.

Watching them together, after so much has happened, is rather endearing though Bill doesn’t admit aloud. He still has to maintain his reputation for being a cantankerous bastard. Resting his hand on the end of the hospital bed, Bill offers him a lopsided grin. “Good to have you back, kid,” he says, meaning it wholeheartedly.

 

* * *

 

Dr. Kraus signs off on Holden’s release paperwork a few weeks later.

He’s not allowed to return to work until his new therapist signs off on his mental health eval, which Bill thinks is probably for the best. It’ll give Holden time to readjust himself to life outside of Walter Reed and their pudding cups that he loathes so much.

It’s while Bill watches Holden begrudgingly eat one of those pudding cups he tells his partner that he and Nancy are divorcing. Holden nearly drops the spoon as he stares at Bill, eyes wide in surprise. “Don’t look at me like that,” he snaps.

“I’m not looking at you like anything,” Holden says, genteelly.

Bill rolls his eyes and snatches the plastic spoon and cup from Holden’s grasp, then sets them on the bedside table. “For the record, _you are_ ,” he replies. “And it’s not like you didn’t see this coming. We’ve been having problems for a while now.”

“Even still,” Holden sighs. He shrugs, his mouth downturned. It makes Bill want to turn it upright. “I’m sorry.”

“If you were really sorry, you’d help me find a place to live,” Bill teases. He leans back in his seat, hands cradling the back of his skull. “The couch is killing me!”

Holden raises a brow. “I might be able to help you with that.”

Now Bill’s intrigued when he really shouldn’t be. This is Holden he’s talking about; the kid’s been intriguing since day one when he waltzed up to his table in the Langley cafeteria and began talking to him. “I’m all ears.”

“I have a spare bedroom,” he says. “It was supposed to be a guest room, except I would need to have guests in order for that to work.” The tops of Holden’s cheeks color. “The bed’s pretty comfortable and there’s a lot of storage space. You know…a closet, dresser. You could even fit a desk in there.”

Bill tilts his head. “Holden, are you asking me to be your roommate-roommate?”

Holden’s nostrils flare in remembrance of when they drove from one training to another and talked about Debbie for the first time. He recalls giving him shit about using the term ‘dated-dated’ and the way Holden humored Bill and how deep in the recesses of Bill’s mind, he thought of Holden being almost adorable.

“Yeah,” Holden deadpans. “I am, but you can’t smoke inside of the apartment.”

“For fuck’s sake!” Bill complains. He really ought to quit smoking anyway; it’s a nasty habit if there ever was one…aside from murder.

Holden smiles again. “It’ll be fun!”

“This is going to end in disaster,” Bill warns, slowly learning that he can’t say no to Holden and his dimples.

It doesn’t; at least not yet. A few days before Holden gets released, Bill packs up his things and kisses Nancy goodbye on her cheek once the last box is loaded into his car before driving over to his new home. Using the spare key Holden made him long ago, Bill carries his belongings into the apartment where he wrinkles his nose at the sterile environment and thinks he could coax his new roommate into nailing personality into the walls.

He finds the bedroom easily enough; it’s just as Holden described—the right amount of space, a bed big enough to sprawl out on, and more storage than Bill could ever need. He unpacks in spurts throughout the day and puts a load of Holden’s forgotten about laundry in the washer before going out for groceries. Bill cleans and throws out the only plant inside of the apartment, long dead from lack of water.

By the time Holden comes home— _home_ , Bill thinks as warmth curls in his stomach—the apartment is spotless, the refrigerator filled with food, and Bill has already settled in. Wendy arrives later in the day with a delicious smelling pizza and a bottle of wine. She’s happier than Bill’s seen her in weeks, probably because Holden is out of the hospital. As Bill sets their dinner down on the kitchen counter, he notices Wendy hugging Holden close to her and can’t help but smile at them.

 

* * *

 

He asks Holden about what happened with Kemper over beer and the Redskins game.

“If I tell you, you’ll just get upset,” Holden replies, quietly. “And I think I’ve done that enough.”

Bill looks at him, having lost all interest in the game. “Done what enough?”

“Upsetting you, Wendy…people.” Holden shifts uncomfortably and takes a sip of his beer.

“Water under the bridge, kid,” Bill assures. When Holden refuses to meet his gaze, he reaches over and takes his arm. “I mean it.”

Holden nods, still refusing to look at him. “I know.”

“Maybe another time?” Bill suggests, hoping he hasn’t pushed Holden too far, too soon. “When you’re ready,” he adds with a grin when Holden finally looks at him.

Holden returns it with one of his own. “Okay,” he says. “When I’m ready.”

 

* * *

 

He falls in love with Holden in pieces.

Unconsciously at first, then slowly from there on out until finally the realization dawns on Bill all at once.

He doesn’t know what does it—Holden running his teeth over his bottom lip while he reads on the couch, completely unaware and engrossed by the book in his hands, or Holden looking over his desk to Bill’s and grinning, knowing he’s been caught. Maybe when Holden’s singing, his voice carrying through the apartment in a warm baritone.

But Bill knows he’s in love and he’s probably felt that way from the very moment Holden said, flustered, “I don’t smoke when I don’t eat either.”

 

* * *

 

They’re in sitting around Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International airport, waiting for Wendy’s very delayed flight to arrive with an even more irate Wendy on it when Holden turns to Bill and says, “I’m ready.”

It’s a rather benign comment as far as comments coming out of Holden’s mouth go. Bill’s found himself in more uncomfortable situations because of Holden and his complete lack of self-awareness or awareness of others when he wants to talk about their latest case. He’s hissed at Holden to shut up while horrified mothers cover their children’s ears as Holden prattles on about the number of stab wounds to a person’s torso so many times that he’s lost count. Roadside diners, quiet airplane cabins, hotel rooms late at night—Holden’s brain doesn’t stop for public decency or Bill’s need to sleep.

Then Bill realizes it’s not regarding the case they’re assisting on or an interview they conducted. It’s about Kemper and what happened that night where only scant details have been available up until this moment. “You’re ready,” Bill says quietly. He glances over both shoulders before scooting closer to Holden. “You sure?”

Holden’s throat bobs as he swallows. “As I’ll ever be,” he replies. “Dr. Everett says that if I were to talk about it that I should do it with someone I trust.” He looks, all hopeful and nervous, at Bill. He leans and stage-whispers, “That would be you.”

“Oh,” Bill whispers back, humoring him. “Don’t let me stop you.”

He chews on his bottom lips, trying to find the right words before speaking. “I went to see him because the hospital called to tell me that he had…” Holden pales at the memory. “He slashed his wrists. To get my attention, I think. I bought it and flew out to see him.”

A plane taxis to the gate after being announced over the loudspeaker. It’s too soon for Wendy’s arrival, but it doesn’t stop Holden from staring ahead, eyes focusing on something unseen. It reminds Bill of when Holden was still at Walter Reed, still in Sacramento, still trapped by his own mind and unable to break free.

“What happened when you went to see him?” Bill asks, gently. When Holden doesn’t answer, he touches his knee. “We can stop if you want. You don’t have to do this right now.”

Holden glances at his hand, then Bill, himself. “I’m fine,” he says, steeling himself.

“Are you?”

“I will be,” Holden answers, the words sounding like a sigh. He slouches in his seat and continues. “Did you know that in ICU, there’s no system to alert the guards?”

Bill shrugs. “Maybe. I’ve never had a reason to.”

“Kemper told me that,” Holden whispers. “He said he could kill me pretty easily and do some interesting things before anyone showed up. That I’d be with him in spirit.” His jaw clenches shut, working as Holden grinds his teeth together. His eyes brighten until Holden rubs his hands over them, wiping the beginnings of tears away. “I remember being so terrified; this huge man—not even a man, a monster—was coming towards me and I knew he _could_ do all of those things. He could murder me and my body would be at his mercy or until someone stopped him, even if they could. He asked why I came there and I told him I didn’t know. He said ‘well, now that is the truth’ and hugged me. Embraced me like we were old friends.” Holden shivers as he closes his eyelids. “Then I ran—that’s what the medical staff said.”

Bill rubs his thumb over Holden’s kneecap, not even realizing he’s doing it. “You don’t remember?”

Holden shakes his head. “Not a fucking thing,” he replies, his voice sounding shrill. More tears wet his lashes when he opens his eyes if they don’t fall down his cheeks. Bill wonders if this is what Kemper saw when he terrorized Holden for that brief interval—a glimpse of a sure-fire, but fragile man he could dominate. He hates the bastard even more now, knowing what he did. “Everything just kind of… _tilted_. Went grey around the edges, I guess, and the next thing I knew, I was in a hospital room at Walter Reed with no memory of how long I had been there.”

Passengers disembark the plane, coming out the gate to greet their loved ones. They pass by Holden and Bill without sparing either of them a second glance and continue on towards baggage claim.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” Bill tells him. “I should have been.”

“Bill,” Holden begins to say.

He cuts him off. “That’s what partners do,” he explains, offering Holden a grin. “We have each other’s backs.”

“I thought it was so you could steal fries off my plate,” Holden deadpans. He returns the grin with one of his own while Bill laughs.

And laughs and laughs.

He keeps laughing until Wendy comes over to them with not a single ounce of annoyance tightening her features, asking if anyone’s game for steak and some drinks.

 

* * *

 

While Bill falls in love in pieces, he learns Holden throws himself into the fray.

He does so consciously and over time, gauging Bill’s reactions when Bill isn’t paying attention and thrusts the realization that Bill’s affections are returned with a chaste kiss inside of their shared hotel room.

They’re back in Atlanta again, pouring over more evidence in a string of gruesome and upsetting murders of young boys. Bill sees his son in those victims, making his stomach churn because the world can be truly evil sometimes. Then he’s reminded that other times, including feeling the press of Holden’s mouth slotted against his own, it can be wonderful.

Or right now.

Bill has the backs of Holden’s thighs against the front of his, skirting across his sweaty skin as he fucks Holden into the mattress. He watches as Holden’s lashes flutter when Bill squeezes the toned muscle and surges deeper. Bill thinks there’s nothing more gorgeous than hearing Holden moan or feel his body trembling under and around his. The piping heat of him makes Bill dizzy with pleasure; Holden’s so tight, so unexplored, and all _his_.

He thinks he really ought to have Holden from behind—it’s easier the first time, Bill was told once long ago—but it would mean not seeing Holden’s face as he cums between their bodies or watching his cock thicken while he fingers him open. And his cock is a lovely thing; not as long as Bill’s own, but thicker with a flared head that made Bill’s mouth water upon seeing it. He’s going to want that inside of him one day, but it’ll have to wait. Pushing Holden’s legs towards his chest, Bill leans over him to kiss the tops of Holden’s cheekbones, chasing where the dark fan of lashes has already touched. A strangled sound escapes through his lover’s parted lips—caught somewhere between another moan and a sob—and Bill nips the skin of Holden’s salty jaw. He’s been with other men before, though years have passed since the last one. Those lovers were dalliances of convenience while Holden is anything but. He’s complicated, complex, frustrating, maddening, and so fucking beautiful that there are times Bill can hardly look at him.

Bill cups the firm globes of Holden’s ass, hitching his hips up so he can seek out the spot that will make Holden go shock-still with pleasure. He wants to see Holden’s head thrown back, baring his neck to Bill’s mouth or feel how Holden arches against him, crying out his name. He wants to bury himself in Holden and claim him as _his_ ; not Kemper’s, not the FBI’s, _his_.

Arms loop around his neck, tugging Bill forward as they continue moving against each other. Holden’s mouth finds his own, tasting of sex and sweat. Caught between their bodies is Holden’s cock, hard and spilling precum as friction and Bill continues to plunge into him. He’s close; Bill knows he is. He can feel the ripple building inside of him.

Holden gasps, fingers digging into his hair. He sounds desperate, like a man on the verge. His eyes are opened wide, the blue of them swallowed by his pupils. Instead of darkness, they reveal the depths of him. His deepest, most private feelings; his feelings for—

“Bill!” Holden shouts. He tugs on his hair, pulling almost painfully as his cock spurts between them and paints their skin with his semen. Cursing, Holden folds into Bill and moans encouragingly as Bill fucks him to chase his own orgasm.

Bill thinks he must be sore and oversensitive by now, but Holden doesn’t show it. He pulls Bill closer, capturing his mouth again and shoves his tongue inside to seek out Bill’s own. They stay like that, just kissing and kissing until Bill fills Holden up with his cum and while they catch their breath.

He kisses Holden in the shower while they rinse off and after they fall onto the other bed, the one that’s free of a telltale wet spot and dirty sheets. Bill wants to keep kissing him even after Holden’s drifted off in his arms, snoring softly as Bill lies awake in the dark. Somewhere outside car horns honk and a murderer runs loose, but here in the hotel room, they bask in the afterglow of sex and the beginnings of a new phase in their relationship.

 

* * *

 

They join Wendy for a late breakfast in the morning.

She doesn’t say anything if she senses a change between him and Holden while Holden is too busy to notice as he digs into his pancakes. He chats happily between bites, asking Wendy about her evening and complaining about how Bill snores like a chainsaw.

“You _do_ ,” Holden says after Bill’s rolled his eyes.

“You say the nicest things, but I don’t,” Bill replies, unable to hide the fondness in his voice. He notices Wendy and her all-knowing smile she tries to conceal behind her cup of coffee.

He returns it with one of his own.

 

* * *

 

“So what happens now?” Holden asks as he turns the key in the front door lock.

Bill pauses in unbuttoning his coat to glance at him. They’ve just arrived back home after a very long two weeks in Atlanta filled with puzzling clues and grieving families; it’s nice to be away from it. “We unpack and make a home-cooked meal,” he says.

“Don’t be glib,” Holden tells him. “Between us,” he clarifies.

He watches Holden run his tongue over his lips, turning them pink and glistening. Bill wants to press his mouth against them, kissing away Holden’s worries. “What do you want to happen, because I only want what you do,” he answers, truthfully.

Holden blushes as one of their neighbors comes down the hallway, holding a basket of laundry. She smiles brightly at them and says hello—Bill cannot remember her name. She’s around Holden’s age with straight blonde hair that falls down her back like a curtain; the kind of woman Bill would have chased after long before finding himself in love with a man with guileless blue eyes and a dimpled grin.

“Inside?” Holden questions. He’s already opening the door for Bill to give them privacy.

The familiarity of the apartment surrounds them as they set down their luggage and shrug off their coats; these walls allow Bill to reach for Holden and lace their fingers together. He waits for Holden to come into the circle of his arms and smiles when he does so. Resting his cheek against Holden’s, Bill holds him close. “What do you want to happen?” he whispers.

“This,” Holden answers.

Bill pulls away to gaze at him. He runs his fingers over Holden’s face—tracing the places where he’s kissed, where he’s touched, where he’s admired—and wonders how it took him so long to fall in love with this beautiful man. What they’re stepping into could be dangerous for both of them because while homosexuality is no longer considered a mental illness, there are those who don’t understand it. They fear it and fear breeds the worst of actions. It could affect their careers, their reputations, their families and friends—they are gambling their lives away for this wondrous thing and Bill doesn’t care. “I want this too,” he says. He leans closer and brushes his lips against Holden’s skin.

“For how long?” Holden murmurs, eyes fluttering as Bill moves to another place to kiss.

“I’m not sure. For a while now, I guess. Longer than I realized,” Bill admits. He drifts from his lover’s sharp jawline to a faded birthmark on his neck and, finally, Holden’s plush lips. He doesn’t kiss him, not yet, as he brushes a lock of hair from Holden’s forehead. “Probably from the moment I saw you eating in the cafeteria.”

Holden chuckles. “I think unpacking can wait,” he says, pressing his cheek into Bill’s palm. His stubble scratches Bill’s skin. “Kiss me.”

“I’ll do more than kiss you,” Bill promises, tugging him closer. He presses his lips to Holden’s, teasing his mouth open until the wet, hot slip of Holden’s tongue brushes against his own. Holden makes an obliging sound as Bill leads him towards his bedroom, walking him backward by the hips while fingers unbutton his dress shirt.

Holden tugs his shirt out of his pants, hastily pushing it down Bill’s arms and off his body before dropping it on the floor. He doesn’t know where it quietly lands or cares that his belt soon joins it. Holden is stripping him naked like his life depends on it and Bill wonders when this became his life. He’s had Holden various ways in their hotel room, switching from bed to bed like they do positions, and taught Holden what he likes. Bill’s seen the kid’s mouth wrapped around his cock, puffy lips slick with salvia as Bill eases him down so he doesn’t take too much and choke. He’s tasted every inch of him, including his ass—and Holden’s reaction, alone, was worth doing it several times since then.

He bats Holden’s hands away from him and begins undressing his lover. Bill has Holden’s pants and underwear around his ankles when they fall onto the bed in a tangle of limbs. He pulls off his own undershirt and tosses it aside, then toes off his socks before working on Holden’s. “Not fucking you with these on,” he growls into Holden’s calf.

“You’re not fucking me at all,” Holden teases. The little shit’s smirking at him.

“Perhaps I should,” Bill tells him as he pins Holden’s wrists to the mattress, keeping them above his head. He shoves his knee between his, nudging the younger man’s legs apart.

Holden gasps. His eyes flutter shut as he curses. “Perhaps you should,” he says when he finds his voice again.

He does.

Until Holden has cum drying on his stomach and between his thighs. Until Holden’s skin is sweaty and pink and too hot to the touch when it brushes against Bill’s. Until Holden has a glazed, faraway look in his eyes and whines when Bill rolls off the bed to fetch a washcloth. He would complain about it, but when Bill glances over his shoulder and sees the ruined masterpiece that is Holden Ford, he can only grin to himself.

 

* * *

 

The next morning Holden fucks him, for a change.

Bill’s forgotten what it’s like to feel overwhelmingly full and to be penetrated. How it burns so good and the feeling of a cockhead stabbing his prostate with each thrust.

It’s everything he’s wanted and needed and more.

 

* * *

 

Merging two lives into one is almost like falling in love with Holden all over again.

Unconsciously at first, then slowly once both of them realize that they’ve been aligning their routines. It’s like building a house, starting with a foundation—one for them to stand upon and make a real go of whatever this is. It’s amazing, it’s frightening, it’s daring. They have more to lose—their livelihoods, their families, their reputations—but it doesn’t stop either he or Holden from throwing themselves headlong into each other.

They’re careful; while homosexuality was removed from the APA in 1973, there are people who still view it as a horrible, vile thing. Bill never understood it, himself, because anyone should be able to fall in love with whoever they choose. He and Holden appear to be roommates of convenience to the Bureau—which isn’t exactly unheard of.

There are nights Holden has nightmares of shadowy figures cornering him in a hospital room or lurking in the darkness before he wakes them up with his shouting. Bill holds him close as if he’s trying to absorb the tremors coming from Holden’s body.

“What if I’m just like _him_?” Holden muses as his fingers rub the sleeve hem of Bill’s undershirt. He never mentions Kemper by name, but Bill knows it’s him who haunts his partner’s subconscious. “We see such terrible things every day and what if…what if I snap and I become just like our subjects?”

Bill drops his lips to the top of Holden’s head, feeling his hair tickling his skin. “You could never be like them. You care about people too much to want to hurt them.”

Which is true. Holden may be an idiot on the worst of days, but he has always means well. He would never harm another person intentionally and if he ever had to, Bill already knows how guilty his partner would feel. Holden has too much sympathy and empathy; he is a human being, not a monster.

There are the other nights Bill sleeps on the couch when he has Brian on alternating weekends because he’s not quite ready to have that sort of discussion if his son were to find him in bed with another man. He and Holden don’t risk touching during those painful first months until Brian goes back to Nancy’s; Holden comes up behind him and holds him, pressing his lips into the fabric of Bill’s shirt. He feels the heat of him against his body and sighs.

“I missed you,” Holden says and, shit, it stings.

“I’m sorry,” Bill tells him, slowly turning around in Holden’s arms. He has a thousand explanations on his tongue but closes his mouth when Holden shakes his head.

Holden leans in and kisses him. “No, don’t be.” He cups Bill’s cheek, running his thumb over his skin. “I get it. We have a lot to lose if someone finds out and I don’t want one of those things to be Brian.”

As Bill guides Holden into his embrace, he thinks about Holden’s fears of becoming like Kemper or Speck or Manson. None of them would have cared of how their behavior affected others or put the needs of others before their own. He stands there in the silence of the apartment with Holden pressed closely to him and wonders what the hell he did to deserve the man in his arms.

He’s the one who wakes up next to Holden every morning and orbits around him for the better part of the day until they fall back into bed together, fucking and drifting to sleep to the sounds of their breathing. It’s amazing to spend time with Holden, let alone share a life with him and Bill doesn’t want to jeopardize that. “I love you,” Bill tells Holden for the first time since he’s realized it.

Holden’s head whips up in surprise; he stares at Bill with widening eyes and his lips parted in the way Bill’s seen him do when he’s at a loss for what to say. Right now he’s more perplexed than anything. “Yeah?” he finally manages.

“Yeah,” Bill says. “I do.”

The expression in Holden’s face changes; his eyes soften while his mouth closes, looking plump and ready for Bill to lick his way into. “Say it again,” Holden whispers; Bill hears the smile in his voice.

“I love you,” Bill repeats and Holden says, “Again.”

He says it into Holden’s skin as he undresses him and against the underside of Holden’s cock while his fingers stretch him open. Bill whispers it into the small of Holden’s back, lapping up the sweat and tracing the letters with his tongue. He says it and says it some more, watching as muscles move under his hands and Holden’s thighs tremble from finding the perfect angle for Bill to strike his prostate with each thrust.

Bill says it when Holden cums, watching Holden shake apart with his head thrown back and his mouth emitted the most wonderful sounds. He digs his fingers into Holden’s hips, urging him on as Holden clenches around his cock and Bill joins him, spilling deep.

“I love you, too,” Holden tells him. Their bodies are still attached, Bill buried inside of him despite his cock beginning to soften.

He blinks up at him, taking in the image of Holden—sweat soaked, flushed skin, and beautiful—straddling his body and smiles. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Holden says, laughing. “I do.”

There are the Thursday night dinners Bill invites Holden to join him with Brian and watches them color on a placemat while they wait for their meal to arrive. Holden makes sure to ask yes or no questions so Brian can bob his little head in reply and manages to make him giggle a time or two. It becomes easier as time goes on; less fearful. They move into an apartment with three bedrooms—the third which they use a guest room and office—and fill one of them with Brian’s things. Holden asks Bill about the art therapy sessions and the resource specialist and offers his support with open arms like he’s always done.

On the alternating weekends Brian spends at the apartment, Bill finds Brian playing on the carpet or watching cartoons with Holden. They set the alarm in their bedroom a few hours before Brian wakes up in the morning so Bill can stumble back to “his room”, where his son finds him and jumps on him, shrieking with laughter when Bill begins to tickle him.

On a Saturday night after a long week, Bill comes into the bedroom, having tucked Brian in. Holden’s already asleep with a book face down on his chest, much to Bill’s amusement. Crawling onto the mattress and reaching for the worn paperback, Bill chuckles to himself as he sets it aside before kissing Holden’s forehead and turning off the light.

 

* * *

 

Months pass as they are wont to do.

They solve a murder and several more while continuing their research with Wendy by their side. She knows about them— _finally_ —and tells Bill, “It’s about fucking time” over greasy donuts and shitty coffee in a gas station just outside of Pittsburgh. Holden is still in DC, lecturing at Georgetown.

He thinks he means that he and Holden finally gave into their growing attraction. “I didn’t want to push it,” Bill says, lamely. “Holden’s never been with another man.”

“Not that,” Wendy replies. She wipes powdered sugar from her chin. “I meant that you _finally_ told me. I had you and Holden pegged ages ago.”

Bill nearly drops his coffee. “You did?”

Wendy gives him a look—the one where she doesn’t have to say that she’s studied human behavior and he’s an idiot for not realizing that she already knew. Her expression softens. “Are you happy?”

“Yeah, I am.”

“Is he happy?” When Bill nods, she smiles. “Then I’m happy for you both.” She takes a sip from her coffee cup and grimaces. “This tastes awful.”

Bill snorts. “Worst I’ve ever had!”

They stand there, laughing, as an early morning rain shower begins to fall.

 

* * *

 

Time moves and so do they.

With Bill’s name on the deed, they buy a white townhome with black shutters in Old Town Alexandria. It’s a fifteen-minute drive from Nancy and her second husband’s home in Fairfax and walking distance to the Metro. No more sharing a wall with noisy neighbors and now having a small back patio to hold barbeques.

The day they get the keys, Bill leans against the wall in the room they’ve deemed their office while Holden blows him in the most spectacular fashion. After he’s cum down his lover’s throat and watched him swallow every last drop, Holden fucks him.

Bill decides it’s the best way to celebrate.

 

* * *

 

Holden nearly dies on a cold Thursday afternoon during a hostage situation.

The scent of snow lingers in the air as a precursor of the weather to come. Bill stands with Holden as he speaks calmly to the trembling man with a gun in one hand and a sobbing woman in the other. She’s just a girl, to be honest—maybe a few years older than Brian, who is now thirteen and brilliant—and it makes Bill heartsick to look at her. He wants to rush to her aid but knows if he makes any sudden movements, she could die because of him.

“Spencer,” Holden says with genuine concern. “I want to help you. What can I do to help you?”

The man, Spencer, shrinks back, his eyes darting around the scene of police cars and other emergency vehicles. He’s already killed one man—the security guard—and seems sick with guilt. “I want these people to leave. They’re making me nervous.”

Holden shakes his head. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Spencer.” He takes a step forward, his hands raised in the air like a peace offering. “Is there someone I can call for you? I know when I call my partner—” Holden spares Bill a glance for a millisecond before he turns back to Spencer. It’s not long enough for anyone to catch them, but it’s meaningful all the same. Nearly six years together and Bill knows every nuance making up the man that is Holden Ford and he can’t help but love him even more. “—after a long day, it makes me feel better.”

“I know what you mean,” Spencer says. “Like the world ain’t so bad.”

“Exactly,” Holden agrees. “Do you want me to have them call someone?”

Spencer thinks about it for a moment and speaks too softly for anyone to hear. Holden takes another step forward, craning his head. “I didn’t catch that,” he says.

“My boyfriend,” Spencer replies, louder this time. “Can you call my boyfriend? I want to talk to him.”

“What’s his name?” Holden asks.

The man’s fingers tighten around the gun. “Aaron Jacobs,” he answers.

Bill goes to the police chief, whispering a plan to track down Spencer’s boyfriend. While people around him murmur about this man being with another, Bill aches for him and wonders what on earth could have triggered this violent episode. The world is a playground for all sorts of chaos; everyone comes into contact with it in some shape or form.

“How are things with you and Aaron?” Holden asks. “Are you happy?”

Spencer shakes his head. “My parents…they found out…” He swallows. “They said I ain’t their son if I was going to be a faggot.”

 _That would do it,_ Bill thinks, bitterly. He remembers when Holden told his parents that he was in a relationship with a man and how horribly that went. It was a few years ago; they were working a case near the Ford’s home and Holden went to a belated birthday dinner with them. Bill had been going over their notes for the day when the door to their hotel room flew opened and Holden stumbled in, sobbing so hard that he could barely stand. Bill leaped over the bed, knocking the lamp off the nightstand, just to get to Holden before his knees buckled.

On the floor, Bill learned only pieces of what happened. The conversation had started out innocently enough when Holden’s mother asked if he was seeing anyone. Holden answered yes—that he loved them and wanted to spend his life with them. The news delighted his parents, who wanted to meet the person—the woman, Holden later realized—that had stolen their son’s heart.

Then Holden told as delicately as he could that they had, in fact, met Bill many times when they had come to visit him in Alexandria. In those moments as silence loomed over the table, Holden watched as his parents asked for the check, which they paid, and left without saying goodbye. Left their only child sitting, alone, at the table in a restaurant filled with strangers while tears gathering in his eyes. Left without telling their son that they loved him; only brutal rejection. He rocked Holden until his sobs tapered off into hiccups; until their bodies ached and the sun was peeking through the blinds.

Several years have passed since it happened and despite that, Holden still can’t speak about that night. It hurts too much.

“I know what that’s like,” Holden says, suddenly. “To have your parents turn their backs on you.” His voice cracks as the words leave his mouth. “It fucking hurts, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Spencer blinks. “Because they’re my mom and dad, you know? They’re supposed to love me no matter what! They _made_ me who I am.”

Holden nods as snow begins to fall. “They’re apart of you and you don’t understand what you did wrong. You’re just living your life; it’s not hurting anyone.” His hand moves, gesturing for Spencer pass the girl to him. “Why don’t you let her go and we can talk, okay? I know you don’t want to hurt her, Spencer.”

He glances at the sobbing girl and slowly nods. “I don’t want to hurt her,” he says, letting go of her arm. He doesn’t move as she trips over her own feet and untied shoelaces before breaking into a run. The girl hurries into the arms of an awaiting policeman before collapsing, wailing. Spencer winces, watching her as she’s covered with a blanket and carted off to an ambulance. “Is she gonna be okay?”

“I’m not a doctor,” Holden answers, honestly. “Thank you for doing that, Spencer. You’re a good person.”

“I am,” Spencer tells him. “My parents don’t think so.”

“But Aaron does,” Holden says. “Aaron knows you are and that’s why he’s with you.”

Spencer swallows. “Where is he? Can I talk to him yet?”

Holden turns to Bill and the police chief, raising his eyebrows in silent question. Bill notices how weary his boyfriend looks from the conversation with Spencer. The wound Holden’s parents left him with has taken three years to close only for a man with a gun to reopen it just to bleed again.

After this is over, Bill is going to take Holden home and hold him. He’s going to show him how much he loves him and, together with Brian, they’re a family. That he adores even little thing about him, unconditionally and always. That he has Wendy and, hell, even Nancy and her husband, Russell in his corner.

“Where’s Aaron?” Spencer demands. He fidgets nervously, fingers tensing around the gun as he says, “You said I could talk to Aaron. Where is he!”

Holden turns back, calm as always when Spencer raises the gun and pulls the trigger. The seconds unfold in slow motion—the clap of the bullet exiting the chamber and the shouts of people ducking for cover. Bill moves behind the police car, watching Holden jerking before he begins to fall. Spencer drops the weapon in shock as Holden’s body hits the ground, bouncing once from the impact before going still.

Then everything speeds up and Bill realizes he’s rushing to Holden’s side as officers tackle Spencer. He doesn’t remember springing into action, just that he’s kneeling and that the snow around them is turning red. Blood pools out of wound dangerously close to Holden’s femoral artery, saturating the fabric of his trousers. He rips Holden’s belt from the loops, fastening it tightly around his thigh without looking up to see whether Holden’s even conscious. Bill’s scared that if he does and finds Holden staring back at him, he won’t be able to turn away. He won’t be able to help him. Shoving Holden’s leg over his shoulder so it remains above his heart, Bill continues to keep pressure to staunch the bleeding, trying to ignore the coppery smell that hits his nostrils and how his hands become stained scarlet.

He keeps pressing and pressing until he watches the ambulance drive off with Holden in the back.

Bloodstained and frightened, Bill goes to the hospital before he calls Wendy, then Shepard. He thinks about phoning Holden’s parents but decides against it. What would he say, anyway?

_Hello, I’m your son’s boyfriend and he got shot this evening. You should fly out here._

Or—

_Hi, I’m Bill and I love your son. He was shot during a hostage situation and is currently in surgery. I’ll call you when I know more._

Or maybe—

_Good evening, I’m the man who loves your son and he loves me. How could you hurt him so badly?_

Instead, Bill goes to the bathroom in a bad attempt to clean himself up. As he washes his hands under the tepid water, he thinks, _I love you and I can’t lose you. Please don’t die. Please don’t leave me._ Swallowing back a sob, Bill gets to work on his shirt—scrubbing and scrubbing like he’s wringing Spencer’s stupid neck.

Like he’s thrashing him against the brick facade of the building, screaming at him to stop this nonsense.

To stop hurting people like his parents hurt him.

By the time most of the blood is out, Bill is seething with rage. With his hands still wet, he marches to the nearest payphone and puts money into the slot. Bill punches in each number with a snarl, his emotions building to a peak in danger of exploding.

A woman picks up. “Hello?”

“Diane Ford?” Bill manages to grit out. The name feels like ash on his tongue; he wants to vomit.

“Speaking.” If he didn’t know about her, Bill would think she sounded sweet. Gentle, motherly—kind. The kind of woman who invited her friends over for tea and was a member of the PTA or booster club.

He swallows so he doesn’t start screaming into the receiver. “Your husband’s name is John.”

“It is,” she says, sounding suspicious. “May I ask who’s calling?”

“Bill Tench,” he tells her. Without giving her the chance to speak, he growls, “You know me.”

Silence forms a cloud around him, making him wonder if she’s already hung up. “I think you have the wrong number,” Diane replies, her voice strained.

“Holden’s been shot. I thought you should know,” Bill hisses into the phone before slamming it down. He does it again, ignoring the tinny sound the metal makes the smooth, black plastic hits it.

He imagines it’s Holden’s parents, who carelessly discarded their son for reasons so stupid and heartless that Bill sees red.

It’s that idiot with a gun, who couldn’t control himself. Who couldn’t just hurt himself instead of others.

It becomes Holden. Holden who is so _fucking_ good at his job, so selfless when it comes to strangers that he’s risked his life because of it.

Bill slams it down again and again until the phone begins to crack and Wendy pulls him away, dragging him down the hall and shoves him into a row of chairs. He balls his hands into a fist, straining and straining until Wendy gives him a good, shake. “Hey!” she snaps, doing it again.

He looks up at her, feeling a sense of deja vu from Sacramento. Holden needed him to be strong then like he does now, but all Bill wants to do is scream. “He doesn’t get to go out like this,” he finally says as tears begin to stream down his face. “Not like this…”

She wraps her arms around him. “Listen to me,” Wendy says. “Are you listening? You’re not going to lose him. He’s going to be fine, Bill. _Holden will be fine._ Come tomorrow, he’s going to be complaining about the hospital food and asking one of us to sneak in the biggest slice of chocolate cake we can find.” Her lips brush against Bill’s cheek. “Holden’s going to be fine. I promise.”

In the end, she’s right, for the good it does for Bill’s frayed nerves. The surgeon comes to find them long after they’ve drunk their fill of watered-down hospital coffee. Bill notices him before Wendy does, immediately standing and watching his expression as he approaches. Wearing a fresh set of scrubs, the surgeon looks tired when he offers Bill a smile.

He doesn’t know who looks after him, but soon they’re on their feet and waiting for good or bad news. The surgeon gestures to the seats as he says, “He’ll be fine.”

Bill slinks onto the plastic chair with a sigh of relief. So strange how three words can change one’s entire existence— _I love you, kiss me now, I miss you, he’ll be fine_ —when others float around, forgotten. Wendy links their arms as the surgeon, who introduces himself as Doctor Stein, begins speaking about blood loss, near-misses, transfusions, the thickness of Holden’s skull and the unexpected broken arm.

“Wait, what?” Bill asks, confused. He doesn’t remember anything that.

Dr. Stein nods. “Since Agent Ford was unable to brace himself when he fell backward, he hit the back of his head and broke his radius and ulna. We were able to reset the bones during surgery and he’ll be in a cast for six to eight weeks. He was lucky, though, since there’s no concussion; a bit of grogginess from the anesthesia and trauma, but that’s expected. I suspect you’re Bill?”

Bill nods before Dr. Stein says, “He’s been asking for you. I have a suspicion that your partner isn’t too pleased with waking up in ICU.”

He thinks of Holden’s last encounter with Kemper in an unguarded ICU room and grimaces. Honestly, Bill’s surprised Holden isn’t speaking in tongues. “He doesn’t like hospitals,” he says, lamely.

“Not many do,” Dr. Stein says, kindly. “That does explain why he was slightly agitated. If you’d follow me.”

ICU is medicinal smelling and far too clinical for Bill’s liking. His skin itches just from being there, though he can’t begin to imagine how Holden’s feeling. When they arrive outside of the hospital room, Bill notices two nurses through the window blinds as they speak quietly amongst themselves and note their patient’s vital signs. Between them, Holden lies under a pile of blankets, seemingly unconscious until one of the nurses must speak to him. His eyes slowly flutter, opening halfway as his mouth moves in slow reply. The same nurse glances towards the window and nods for one of them to come inside.

Bill takes a step forward before Wendy touches his wrist. “Do you want me to go to your place and get you some clean clothes?” she offers.

He glances down at himself with Holden’s blood staining his shirt and trousers despite his efforts to wash it out, then sighs. “If you wouldn’t mind,” he says, pulling out his set of keys.

Wendy takes them from Bill and leans forward, kissing his cheek. “I’ll be back before you know it,” she tells him with a soft smile and shoos him towards Holden’s room.

It doesn’t take much; Bill aches to be by his partner’s side and goes to him. Seeing Holden for the first time in several hours calms Bill. He looks worse for wear; pale and sickly with a nasal cannula gently laid over his cheeks and a blue cast on his arm. They’ve propped his injured thigh up on a pillow before covering it with blankets.

The second nurse bobs her head in greeting and, mercifully doesn’t comment on Bill’s appearance as she turns to Holden and cheerfully says, “Agent Ford, you have a visitor.”

Holden’s eyes flutter open again and after a few moments, his lips curl into a tired smile. “You ruined my belt,” he slurs.

“You sound like a drunk teenager,” Bill fires back.

“I _am_ drunk,” Holden corrects as Bill takes a seat by his bedside.

Shaking his head, Bill folds his jacket over his lap and thinks of the times he’s seen Holden intoxicated—their first anniversary together, Wendy’s last birthday, New Year’s in San Francisco. None of them have been so endearing as this moment. “They’ve got you on the good stuff, huh, kid?”

“I can’t feel my body,” Holden whispers loudly. He blinks owlishly. “Do I still have a body?”

Biting his lip to keep himself from laughing, Bill nods while the nurses giggle. “Yeah, you still have your body,” he replies as he thinks, _And I still have you._

 

* * *

 

Holden comes home a week later with droves of flowers and cards in his wake.

He makes a comment about having fans, grinning impishly while Wendy snorts and Bill rolls his eyes. The bulk of gifts have been spread throughout the downstairs, though the yellow roses from Brian, Nancy and her husband, Russell, sit upon the dresser. It brings a splash of color to the sick room and causes Holden to smile every time he sees them.

“Have I told you how much I love you?” Holden asks on the second evening of being back home. He reclines beside Bill, his hair still damp from his shower and a pillow under his knee. His eyes have that drowsy look about them, meaning his pain medication has begun to kick in and soon he’ll be fast asleep.

Bill peers over the rim of his glasses. “More than your belt?”

“More than my belt, Bill,” Holden answers, humoring him. He reaches for Bill’s hand and squeezes it. “I love you. More than anything.”

He squeezes it back. “I love you too, baby,” Bill says, bringing Holden’s knuckles close enough to kiss each one of them. “More than anything.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Do my parents know?” Holden asks one morning.

They’re eating breakfast and it’s a small mercy that the arm Holden broke isn’t his dominant one, otherwise, his cereal would be all over Bill’s old Farm shirt. It still affects his balance and he absolutely _hates_ the cast more than having to sit through a meeting with Shepard, but there isn’t much he can do until the bones knit themselves back together.

He glances up from spreading jam over a slice of wheat toast, still holding the knife in his hand as he nods slowly. “I called them while you were still in surgery,” Bill admits because, frankly, there’s no point in lying. They simply don’t keep things from each other, especially something this sensitive.

Seeing the faraway look on Holden’s face tells Bill all he needs to know: his parents haven’t contacted him and probably never will. He reaches across the table to touch Holden’s wrist where Bill rubs his thumb over the joint. Back and forth and back and forth; it’s a special rhythm just for his partner, something between them as they sit in the quiet of the kitchen inside of their home. They have it pretty good all things considering—five years in a loving relationship, jobs they both enjoy, friends and family who love them, and a life they’ve built together. If only Holden’s parents would change their mind…

“Who picked up?” Holden doesn’t look at him when he asks.

“Your mother,” Bill says. “I admit that I wasn’t in the greatest mood when I called. It might be why—”

Holden shakes his head. “They won’t call,” he intones. “It has nothing to do with you.”

“I’d beg to differ. I’m the man you’re living with—it has a lot to do with me.”

“They would feel that way about any man I was in a relationship with.” Holden sets his spoon down and swallows as if food is sticking to the insides of his throat. He finally looks up, revealing watery eyes and the pink tip of his nose. He sniffles before saying, “I don’t regret this. Not even for a second.”

Bill smiles at him. “I know. I’ve felt the same way from the first time I kissed you.”

“That was a good kiss,” Holden says, trying to make light of the conversation. He dabs his eyes with his sleeve.

“It was,” Bill agrees, remembering the slow, languid fall into Holden’s sphere as their mouths pressed together for the first time. Like they’re still sitting in Bill’s car outside of their hotel room, chuckling over the day’s events while Johnny Mathis croons on the radio. “You’re easy to fall in love with.”

Holden wrinkles his nose. “No one’s ever said that about me before.”

“It’s the truth.” Bill rubs his thumb on Holden’s wrist, only pausing above his pulse. “I’d marry you if we could.”

“You’d marry me?” Holden asks, surprised.

They’ve never talked about marriage simply because it isn’t in the cards. For now, at least. What they do have is a life—a wonderful, happy life; it’s all either of them can ask for. Bill knows he and Holden are going to grow old together and for that, they don’t need rings or a ceremony. All he wants is to wake up to Holden’s face every morning.

“Of course,” Bill says. “In a heartbeat.” He rises from his chair and goes to Holden, where he comes up behind him and wraps his arms around Holden’s middle. Bill kisses his partner’s cheek, then the beginnings of the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. Bill’s lips venture back down, trailing over Holden’s skin as it goes from smooth to the unevenness of stubble. He hasn’t seen Holden with this much facial hair since before they were together. Bill nuzzles it with the tip of his nose. “Marry me one day, Holden Ford.”

Holden leans into his embrace, nodding. “Yes, William Tench.”

 

* * *

 

Wounds heal with time.

Holden’s broken bones knit back together and where the bullet struck him in the thigh turns into a silvery scar that Bill likes to touch when they’re having sex. Lips, tongue, his fingers—it doesn’t matter how he feels the raised skin—but he does it.

He does it every time to remind him of what he has, of who he loves, and of everything in between.

 

* * *

 

Brian’s sixteen, nearly seventeen, when he walks in the master bedroom one morning to find Bill and Holden asleep in bed.

It dawns on him that they forgot to set the alarm the night before or turn off the bedside lamp, for that matter, Bill notices as he hears his son’s voice through layers of sleep. He mumbles something intelligible before his mind catches up to what’s happening and that Brian is standing in the doorway while Holden’s arm is slung over his stomach, snoring.

“Brian!” Bill shouts, alarmed, as he nudges Holden in his side. “What did I tell you about knocking?”

His son stares at him, nonplussed, with his hair in disarray and wearing his pajamas. It amazes Bill of how much Brian has grown over the years—steadily changing from a shy little boy to a tall young man—and that he’s forgotten what it’s like to be a teenager. “To do it?” he replies. Brian nods at Holden, who’s just beginning to wake. “Hi, Holden.”

Holden sits straight up, eyes widen and cheeks burning scarlet. “B-Brian,” he stammers.

“You probably have some questions,” Bill begins to say.

“Not really,” Brian cuts in. He looks at them before rolling his eyes in that obnoxious way teenagers do. “Chill. I’ve known you guys are together since I was _ten_. Besides,” he says as he waves them off and heads back to his room or downstairs, “it’s the 80s.”

The door shuts and they’re alone again. Bill leans into the headboard, watching the space that his son occupied only moments ago. “It’s the 80s, he says.”

“That went a lot better than I imagined,” Holden comments.

“It’s the 80s like I don’t know what year it is,” Bill grumbles. He turns to Holden. “Were we ever _like that_?”

Holden shrugs as he scratches his neatly trimmed beard. It’s been a constant feature for three years and Bill can’t help but adore it. “Probably worse.”

“Probably,” Bill agrees. He brushes several pieces of hair off of Holden’s forehead before kissing it.

“I guess we don’t have to set the alarm anymore,” Holden muses.

Bill hums in agreement. “What time is it anyway?”

“Too early,” Holden answers as he lies back down. He tugs on Bill’s shirt. “Come back to bed, baby.”

He does.

 

* * *

 

As he brushes his teeth one morning, Bill realizes it’s been ten years since Holden came into his life.

The passage of time goes as easily as breathing. Days blend together and so do memories, though some stand out more than others. Bill remembers spotting Holden sitting alone in the cafeteria as he ate his lunch and walking over to introduce himself.

He’s loved him from the moment Holden said, “I don’t smoke when I don’t eat either” and all Bill could do was chuckle and love him from every moment since then.

 

* * *

 

Bill retires at fifty-six and receives a slew of offers to consult, to write, to teach—each more flattering than the next.

“What did you tell her?” Holden asks while he watches the vegetables as he cooks them on the stove. His shirt sleeves are rolled up to the elbow, revealing his sinewy forearms.

He shrugs. “That I’d think about it,” Bill says, nonchalantly.

“Let me get this straight,” Holden replies. “Wendy calls you from Stanford University to _offer you a teaching position_ and you said you’d think about it?”

Wendy left for the wilds of California the previous year, though she still consults for the FBI on occasion. She lives in San Francisco with her girlfriend—one Dr. Kraus from all those years ago—and has Brian over for dinner once a week since he’s studying at Cal. Wendy loves it out there because the Bay Area is far more accepting of homosexual relationships than most and the weather is considerably better than DC’s.

“Yes, because I’d need to think about it,” Bill deadpans at his scowling boyfriend. “Don’t look at me like that!”

Holden continues to look at him _like that_. “Bill, this is huge!”

“I know.”

“There’s an FBI office in San Francisco,” Holden mentions.

Bill folds his arms over his chest. “I’m aware.”

“I know you are,” Holden says, shrugging one shoulder. He turns back to the stove, moving the pan around the burner. “We’d be closer to Brian,” he adds after a while.

He thinks of his son, nineteen and an engineering major, and how much he misses him. Brian is having the time of his life at Berkeley, where he’s making friends and dating a young lady named Erin who Bill hasn’t met yet. From what Nancy and Russell have said about Erin, he thinks he’s going to like her.

“We would,” Bill agrees.

“It doesn’t snow,” Holden mentions.

Bill chuckles. “It rains a lot. And Wendy said it’s foggy in San Francisco for most of the year.”

“Mark Twain said that the coldest winter he ever saw was a summer in San Francisco,” Holden says, grinning.

“They’re not even sure he said that,” Bill replies as he comes up behind Holden and wraps his arms around him. He rests his chin on his shoulder, watching as Holden cooks part of their dinner. “Would you want to live there?”

Holden turns to kiss Bill’s cheek. “I wouldn’t mind, but would teaching make you happy?” He moves the pan away from the burner, which he turns off. Draping his arms around Bill’s shoulders, Holden shrugs. “All I want is for you to be happy.”

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” Bill says with overwhelming fondness in his voice. It’s the truth. He never thought he’d find someone who truly understood him and what his job entailed, then accept it wholeheartedly. Holden has done more than that—he’s challenged him, changed him for the better, and been an amazing father figure to Brian. “I wouldn’t mind teaching.”

Holden nods. “You’re a good teacher.”

There’s something about the way Holden says it that makes Bill’s cock twitch in interest. “I am?” he asks, pulling Holden closer to him. “How so?”

“Let me show you,” Holden murmurs, already sinking to his knees while his fingers unclasp his belt. He pulls it out of the loops and reaches for the button Bill’s jeans.

He watches Holden as he drags his tongue up and down the length of Bill’s cock, teasing it to full hardness and teasing him so more just because he can. Bill steadies himself by placing his hands on Holden’s shoulders, bunching up the fabric of his shirt under his fingers when Holden licks his cockhead. He groans as Holden takes him into his mouth, bobbing his head and applying more suction with each movement.

Holden looks beautiful like this—with his lips stretched wide and red around Bill’s cock and his eyes glistening with arousal. Bill knows he’s hard and aching in his pants, probably dripping precum onto his underwear. “Take your dick out, baby,” he whispers to Holden. Bill runs his thumb over Holden’s cheekbone. “I want you to jack off while you blow me.”

Holden moans around him, his eyes fluttering while he fumbles with his pants. His belt jingles as it comes undone, followed by his zipper being pulled down.

“Come on, baby,” Bill urges. “Fuck your fist for me.” He smiles down at Holden bobbing his head on his cock, looking so fucking gorgeous and wrecked as Bill feels, and thinks of how much he loves him. He loves him beyond anything he could describe, beyond everything around them—Bill loves this man and amazingly this man loves him back.

Holden swallows around him, groaning as his hand works to bring himself off. Bill pictures Holden’s cock, the flushed length sprouting from brown curls and the thick head already wet with precum. He loves having his boyfriend in his mouth, in his hand, _in his body_ , and sheathed around him when they’re fucking.

“You’re so beautiful,” Bill rasps. He tips his head back at the sensation of Holden’s tongue dipping into his slit, teasing the sensitive opening so expertly—much like Bill taught him in the early days of their relationship. “I can’t believe you’re mine, Holden. I can’t believe it…”

He doesn’t last much longer; his orgasm pulses through him until it becomes overwhelming and his cum paints Holden’s tongue with a breathless cry. Holden moans around Bill, swallowing him down while he works to bring himself off. Bill sinks to his knees and bats Holden’s hand away from his cock as he crushes their mouths together. He tastes himself as they kiss, feeling Holden’s need as he trembles against him and throbs in his fist, so slick and achingly hard. Bill nips at Holden’s bottom lip, catching it with his teeth and tugging while Holden swears and coats his fingers with his release. Bill pumps him through the aftershocks, holding his boyfriend as he whimpers and shudders before going pliant in his arms.

“Wow,” Holden manages to say a few minutes later. They’re still lying on the kitchen floor with their pants and underwear around their knees. “ _Wow_ , that was…”

Bill hums in agreement, brushing his lips against Holden’s sweaty temple. His back and knees, for that matter, won’t be thanking him come morning but he doesn’t care. “I know. I’ll call Wendy tomorrow; see if we can make a weekend out of it.”

“I’ll clear my schedule,” Holden tells him, snuggling closer to his body.

 

* * *

 

The decision to move comes surprisingly easy to them; they fall in love with the foggy city of San Francisco and the mild weather.

More importantly, they fall in love with the notion of not hiding their relationship when they walk down the street. Bill can hold Holden’s hand and kiss his cheek without the fear of violence against them. It’s everything they’ve dreamt about and more.

When Stanford calls him a few hours after the panel interview, Bill already knows what his answer will be.

 

* * *

 

A year in California passes at light speed; so fast that neither Bill or Holden can keep track.

It comes to a screeching halt one rainy afternoon. Bill walks through the front door of their condo, shaking water off his umbrella before hanging it on the coat rack along with his jacket. The warmth of the home he shares with Holden chases away the chill from his bones. With his briefcase in hand, Bill heads to the office where he can set it down and begin grading papers to keep him occupied until Holden comes back.

As he walks, he passes by the living room and doubles back when he notices Holden hunched over on the couch with the telephone in his lap. “Hey,” Bill says, setting his briefcase down in the doorway. “You’re home early.”

Holden usually isn’t home until early evening and from the looks of it, he’s been here for a while. His suit jacket has been thrown over one of the armchairs with his tie. Bill already knows just by his body language that something is terribly wrong and for a brief moment, he thinks it’s Brian before Holden says, “Margo called me at work.”

His cousin, Margo, is five years younger than Holden and lives down on the Peninsula with her husband, Douglas, and their daughter, Jennifer. Bill met her a few months after Holden’s disastrous dinner with his parents when she had come to visit. He hadn’t known what he had been expecting—perhaps the same fair skin and blue eyes, he thinks. Margo is slight with olive skin with dark features and smiles easily. She has always been accepting of her older cousin’s relationship with Bill and promised to try to get his parents see reason.

That was nearly seven years ago.

“Is it your parents?” Bill asks as he sits down next to Holden. The gray hairs threading through Holden’s temples catches in the light.

Holden swallows and nods. Sniffling, he wipes his nose with his sleeve. “They’re dead,” he says, sounding hollow. Disbelief mutes his voice. “They were flying from Faro to the Netherlands and the plane…”

Bill lifts the telephone from Holden’s lap and sets it down on the coffee table before pulling Holden into his arms. There, he feels his boyfriend shaking in grief. “Baby,” he whispers into his hair. “I am so sorry.”

“I thought we would talk one day,” Holden manages to choke out as his tears wet the front of Bill’s shirt. “I thought they would call and say they loved me no matter what.” He clings to Bill as sobs rack his body. “I wanted them to call, Bill. I wanted them to accept me.”

He holds him more tightly. “They loved you in the best way they knew how,” he says. It didn’t make what they did to Holden right, but Bill knows deep down, under their prejudice, they loved their son.

“I wanted to hear their voices,” Holden whimpers, he lifts his head from Bill’s chest, revealing red, puffy eyes from crying. Tears wet his face where they don’t catch in his beard. “I missed them.”

Bill brushes them away with his fingers. “I know,” he tells him.

He hoped for Holden’s sake that Margo would manage to talk some sense into them if Holden’s parents hadn’t found it on their own. He saw the look on his boyfriend’s face when the phone rang because it could be them or that one day they would show up on their doorstep. Bill knew Holden held onto it, even if it lingered in the back of his mind: always hoping, always waiting, always wishing. The Fords might have been lost to Holden in an emotional sense, but it’s become physical. Their death will forever leave a gaping hole in their son’s heart and so many what-ifs.

“What can I do?” Bill asks despite knowing there isn’t anything. He remembers what it was like losing his own mother to cancer and his father to a massive heart attack. Condolences can only do so much.

Holden’s shakes his head as his wet lips tremble. “I don’t know,” he whispers. “I don’t know…”

Bill guides Holden’s head to his shoulder, where he cries until he’s wrung out and hiccupping in his sleep, the sound fading with the sunlight.

 

* * *

 

On the day of the funeral, Bill lies in bed with Holden.

Neither of them speaks as the morning passes because what is there to say, really? Holden, whether he wanted to or not, already said his goodbyes to his parents in a crowded restaurant and going back to where he grew up to bury them won’t bring him the type of closure he needs. That will forever be unattainable, though one day he might be able to make peace with what happened and how it ended. For now, Holden wanders through the condo in a fog, his eyes glazed over with tears or alternately, staring into space.

“Is he going to be alright?” Brian had asked the night before while he and Bill put dishes in the dishwasher. His brown eyes flickered over to Holden who sat at the kitchen table, nursing a half-empty glass of water, and nodded in his direction. Twenty-two and a recent Berkeley graduate, Brian had decided to remain in the Bay Area after accepting an engineering position at Oracle.

Bill glanced at Holden before turning back to his son and shrugged as he said, “In time.”

Because it’s true what they say that time heals all wounds. Bill rubs his hand up and down Holden’s arm, fingering tracing over birthmarks and freckles to create invisible constellations. Rain taps rhythmically against the windows as it nearly drowns out the sounds of San Francisco. “I love you,” Bill whispers into Holden’s hair as if he doesn’t tell him often enough.

“I love you, too,” Holden says. He lifts his head off Bill’s shoulder to look at him. In the morning light, his eyes take on a slate hue, neither grey or blue but both mixed together. “I love you more than anything.”

He lets go of the breath he’s been unconsciously holding. Worry has consumed him during the past two weeks—worry that Holden would blame Bill for the fractured relationship he had with his parents, worry that Holden would never be okay, worry that this would always hang over them. “More than anything, huh?” Bill asks, smiling. “Sounds like an awful lot.”

“It is,” Holden tells him as he wrinkles his nose, charmingly. There are times Bill wishes he could kiss every single one of the freckles on Holden’s body, tasting them until it’s all he knows even if there are too many of them to do so.

Bill settles for kissing his temple before they lapse back into silence.

 

* * *

 

“They read the will,” Margo tells Bill a few days later.

She’s still in Michigan to help her parents clear out the Ford’s house before it goes on the market, though, unofficially, she’s there on Holden’s behalf since he can’t do it himself. Margo’s been phoning Bill every evening to keep him updated and siphon the information to Holden if he’s ever ready.

Sitting in the office with the door closed, Bill ravels the telephone cord around his index finger. “How did your dad handle it?” He’s met Margo’s father—Holden’s mother’s younger brother—once before at a barbeque at Margo’s home and was pleased to discover that despite being related, he didn’t share the same sentiments as Diane Ford. Losing his sister—the first of their five other siblings—must be hard on everyone.

“Stoically,” Margo answers, bemused. “I think everyone’s a bit emotionally drained.”

“Death is never easy,” Bill agrees, knowing all too well during his tenure with the FBI. He’s seen more than most people and even still, it hangs over him.

Margo clears her throat. “Aunt Diane left something for Holden. It’s in a manila envelope and is supposed to only be opened by him, but I wouldn’t put it past her—mommy’s on the phone, peanut.”

Bill also knows interruptions from children all too well and chuckles softly as he listens to Margo talking to Jennifer. He misses those days when Brian was small and thinks they passed by too quickly.

“Are you still there?” Margo asks once Jennifer has run off to play with her cousins.

He grins. “Still here,” Bill assures, warmly. “You were saying that you wouldn’t put it past Diane to do something?”

“To twist the knife just a bit more,” Margo says, lowering her voice. “She could be a real pill when she wanted to be…a trait Holden’s inherited at times.”

Bill rolls his eyes and nods. “Don’t I know it?” he replies and Margo laughs. “Did you read it yet?”

“Haven’t had the chance, to be honest. I was going to do it when we got home because if she has, I’d rather warn Holden before giving it to him. He’s already been through enough with them. How’s he doing?”

“He has his good days and his bad,” Bill tells her.

Margo hums in understanding. “Holden’s lucky to have you, Bill.”

“You mean I’m lucky to have him.”

She laughs. “You’re both lucky!” Margo declares. “Seriously, though. I’m glad you came into his life.”

“Thank you,” he says. “I’m glad he’s in mine. We’ve been together for so long that I can’t picture it without him.” Nearly fifteen years and Bill’s never been happier. He barely remembers what life was like before Holden came into it and cast his spell. There are times he’ll look over at Holden and fall in love all over again. Bill has a secret hope that everyone has the opportunity to experience what he does on a daily basis because its beauty is beyond words.

“I’ve got to go; my mom’s looking for me,” Margo sighs. “We’ll be back tomorrow night.”

Bill shrugs. “Call us when you get in.”

“Will do. And Bill,” she says. “Thanks for looking out for him.”

Genuine gratefulness fills her already warm, melodious voice and suddenly Bill’s eyes sting with tears. “He looks out for me, too,” he says after clearing his throat.

“I know,” Margo replies. She sounds like she’s smiling. “I’ll speak to you soon.”

They hang up—Margo to venture back to her family and Bill to go find Holden, which he does. Holden sits in the living room as he sifts through his editor’s notes on the book he and Wendy are writing. Bill doesn’t have the discipline to sit down and devote hours to putting thoughts on paper but admires the drive of Wendy and his boyfriend. This has been the end game once they finished compiling their research and it’s nice to see it coming to fruition.

“How’s Margo?” Holden asks as he jots something down in a notebook.

“She’s good,” Bill replies. He comes up behind him and rests his hands on Holden’s shoulders. “Said that her, Doug, and Jennifer will be back in town tomorrow night. They’ll call when they get in.”

Holden makes an incoherent sound that Bill takes as a sign of having sort of listened to him. “I’ll bet they’ll be glad to be home.”

Bill’s fingers dip into the collar of Holden’s shirt where his chest hair tickles them. “I bet she’ll be glad to be away from her mother.” The comment causes Holden to laugh. Bill drops his lips to the top of Holden’s head and stays there, breathing him in. “Baby,” he says. “I love you more than anything.”

“I know you do,” Holden says back, grinning. He sets down his pen and notebook and turns around to face Bill. “And I love you more than anything, too.”

He leans in, catching Holden’s mouth with his own and tastes the red wine they drank at dinner on his tongue. Groaning, Bill surges deeper to memorize every little thing about him. “Marry me one day, Holden Ford,” he whispers into Holden’s lips.

“Yes, William Tench,” Holden says. “One day.”

 

* * *

 

It becomes something they say when they are completely and utterly overwhelmed by how much they love each other.

Suffice to say, it’s a phrase repeated often. They hope to have the chance to marry one day, reciting vows in front of their loved ones and celebrating their relationship. In a world where divorce is steadily becoming the norm and people take marriage for granted, Bill and Holden continue to fall headlong into each other. When he wakes to Holden’s face every morning, he thinks might have fallen in love in pieces, but he’s all in now that Bill has him.

As for the letter left to Holden by his mother, Margo burns it and it’s never mentioned again.

 

* * *

 

Brian marries the month after Holden turns fifty.

Rachel is a spitfire born and raised in the Bay Area. Pale and curvy with long dark hair and hazel eyes, she works as an architect in San Francisco and met Brian through mutual friends during Independence Day Weekend. Bill and Holden adore her as soon as Brian nervously introduces them at dinner, smiling shyly when they shake her hand. Rachel’s older brother is gay and has been in a long-term relationship with his partner since she was sixteen, so she doesn’t even bat an eye at them. She’s incredibly welcoming and friendly and insanely intelligent without taking herself too seriously.

He gives Brian his own mother’s wedding ring when Brian mentions he wants to propose. “Grandma would have wanted Rachel wearing it,” Bill explains as he sets the box in his son’s palm, his eyes glistening with tears.

“Grandma would have loved her,” Brian comments after he gives Bill a hug. He dabs the corners of his eyes and laughs. “Don’t you think?”

“Absolutely.”

Brian smiles. “She would have loved Holden, too.” He leans in and whispers, “I want him a part of the wedding and so will Rachel. He’s my other dad; him and Russ.”

The wedding is beautiful, though Bill doesn’t pay much attention. He spends most of his time slow dancing to Etta James with Holden in his arms.

 

* * *

 

Life keeps changing.

Bill and Holden become grandfathers twice over to two beautiful little girls. They fly to Hawaii to watch Wendy and Christine marry on the beach. Shepard passes away in his sleep while the book Holden and Wendy write ends up on too many bestseller lists to name.

They fall in love with each other over and over.

Bill wouldn’t want it any other way.

 

* * *

 

_June 26, 2015_

 

Bill is eighty-two when he turns to Holden after CNN announces that the Defense of Marriage Act has been struck down and says, “Marry me, Holden Ford.”

“Yes, William Tench,” Holden, now sixty-seven, replies with tears in his eyes.

They get married at San Francisco City Hall the following day.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated!


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